


Asthéneia

by spartanroses (babybrotherdean)



Category: God of War (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Guilt, Mother-Son Relationship, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 13:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15390171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrotherdean/pseuds/spartanroses
Summary: Atreus can’t remember a time before the sickness.





	Asthéneia

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something with a younger Atreus being sick- since it seems like that was a huge part of his childhood- and I figured it would just be an angsty little ficlet, but it got a little bit out of hand. Oops?
> 
> The title is (according to Google) the Greek word for sickness or disease (it's actually written as ασθένεια; I just wanted the phonetic spelling). There's a scattering of Old Norse and also Greek in this. The translations are included at the end, but hopefully the context clues are enough to get the gist of what they're there for, anyways. ^^ and apologies in advance if things don't mean exactly what they're supposed to. It was a whole lot of Google translate.

Atreus can’t remember a time before the sickness.

His mother calls it _sóttar-far_ , and she does her very best to help him fight it. She’ll hold him when he’s bedridden, stroke his hair out of his eyes, prepare broths for him to soothe his aching throat. She whispers to him that he is strong, and that he will pull through, and that she will not leave his side until he recovers. She rarely does.

His father calls it _asthéneia_ , and Atreus thinks it scares him in a way nothing else ever has. Father is a stoic man, and he’s grown distant as the years go by, rarely stopping by the cabin to rest between his long hunting trips, but when Atreus falls ill- those are the times when Father shows the tiny cracks in his armour.

Today, Atreus is alone. His parents are both out; Father has been gone for a couple of days already, due to return before the next full moon, and Mother had slipped out with the promise to return with something fresh to eat for dinner. Her eyes had been sparkling with promise, and that lingers with Atreus now; he has passed his eighth winter, and soon, the two of them will venture out for the first time past the small circlet of forest that surrounds their home. Mother has spent hours upon hours spinning stories of the world outside the Wildwoods, and it lives vibrantly in Atreus’ imagination. Only now that he’s old enough- only now that he’s strong, and that he can handle himself, and that he knows how to use his bow- will he finally be allowed to see it with his own eyes.

This is why, when he feels the beginnings of illness creeping into his lungs, trying its very best to steal his breath away, he stays very, very quiet about it.

He knows the early signs after years of experience, and the tightness in his chest is just one of the many. His head starts to hurt, stuffed full of something that doesn’t belong there, and a tickle in his throat threatens to turn into a cough. He grows tired quickly throughout the day, and he needs to fight to keep his eyes open by the time the sun has set for the evening. It comes on quickly, and it hits him hard, but this time, he’s determined to keep it to himself. His parents are both strong, and he can be strong, too; he’ll get better all by himself, and by the time he sets out on his journey with Mother, the sickness will be long behind him.

As it turns out, the Nornir have other plans for him.

The days pass him by, and the sickness gets worse. He can feel it in his body, slowing him down and making day-to-day life difficult- more so because he fights to keep it a secret from his mother. She looks at him sometimes like she suspects something isn’t right, but he works hard to distract her, and she doesn’t ask. In hindsight, Atreus regrets it; things never would’ve gotten so bad if he’d just been honest. If he’d just asked for some help.

Because today, he is alone, and today, he thinks he might die.

The cabin feels stiflingly hot, even as his body is wracked by violent shivers. He’s been given some simple chores to do, but even the task of dragging himself from his bed to the small kitchen seems monumental; he’s halfway there when his body fails him completely. His legs fold underneath him, and there’s nothing he can do to stop himself before he hits the floor, hard. A whimper slips free, because he feels hypersensitive to even the brush of clothing against his skin, and the impact hurts more than it should. When he tries to get up, fighting past the weariness, he’s rewarded with a sudden bout of nausea, and what little breakfast he managed to eat ends up on the floor. It leaves him feeling even weaker than before, and he’s left shaking, trying to breathe past the acrid smell of sickness. He’s dizzy when he tries to lift his head, and standing up seems an impossible feat, and he can’t move. He _can’t._

The cry comes unbidden, driven by fear and pain and blind desperation.

“Mother!” It comes out raspy, too quiet with the lack of air in his lungs and the acid that burns his throat. Still, he tries again, tears building in his eyes. He can’t stop the trembling in his limbs. “Mother!”

She must be too far away to hear him. He feels like he’s burning alive, the fever blurring his vision as he tries, once more, to stand. All he accomplishes is falling again, landing on his shoulder this time, and a sob works it way up from his abused throat.

Maybe she won’t come back. Maybe, Atreus thinks, hit hard with a wave of frustration and self-hatred, she has finally realized that he isn’t worth the effort. He’s weak, he’s sickly, and surely, he’s meant to die this way. Better to let it happen than to waste time and energy fighting to keep him alive. He’s worthless; it’s about time she realizes what his father has always seemed to believe.

It’s the last thing Atreus can grasp before he slumps over, unconsciousness taking him. Maybe things will be better this way.

* * *

Deep in the midst of the hunt, Faye stops short when a great feeling of dread comes over her. It’s sudden and shocking, enough to steal her breath away, and she knows better by now than to ignore its call. Home isn’t far, and dinner can wait.

She moves through the forest without seeing any of it, all of her focus on preparing herself for the worst. An animal attack. Draugr, maybe, if her protection stave has failed. Her husband, returned home but near death, as she constantly fears. Her vision may give her hints of the future, but fate is malleable, and she can’t help but worry.

What she finds is worse.

She smells it before she reaches the door, and her stomach turns. When she opens the door to find her son, lying still beside a puddle of sick, she wonders if it’s too late.

“Atreus,” she whispers, and crosses the room, dropping to her knees so she can look at him. He’s breathing, thank the gods, but when she touches him, he’s burning up. He makes a soft sound like he’s in pain, and Faye needs a moment to steady herself before she scoops him into her arms. “I’m here, _smár æinn_. I’m here.”

Atreus does not wake up, but he shivers in her arms. He has fallen ill once more, but she can’t imagine how it got this bad so quickly; surely, there were earlier signs. Surely…

She remembers days of her son going out of his way to be helpful, always with a smile on his face, always with a little extra energy. Always with bruises under his eyes and a pallor to his skin that she ought to have recognized as soon as it had appeared.

It doesn’t matter. The past is irrelevant when her little boy is hurting. He needs her, and she refuses to fail him. She can’t _afford_ to fail him. Not now.

She lays him down gently in the bed she shares with her husband, and she takes a deep breath. It’ll be a long few days.

* * *

Atreus doesn’t wake fully. He feels like he can’t; awareness is far out of his reach, and he’s weighted down by the feeling of his limbs having turned to stone. Perhaps he’s sleeping under one too many blankets. Perhaps the sickness has finally stolen away his agency in its entirety. Perhaps he’s just on the edge of sleep; where his mind wanders, but his body refuses to obey his wishes.

Whatever the case, he doesn’t like it.

He’s aware of some things. Sound filters in and out, giving him little snippets of the world around him. His mother’s voice, quiet and soothing; she talks to him, tells him stories. Whispers that he’s strong, that he’ll pull through the same way he always does. That she’s here, and that she’ll keep him safe no matter what. He’s got a vague awareness of his own body, too; mostly in the way that he occasionally feels a particular ache that pervades every inch of his skin. A familiarity from the other times he’s been sick.

There are clearer moments, too. Moments when he opens his eyes, bleary and unfocused, and he can snatch a few moments of clarity between bouts of hazy absence. He tries to speak, but his throat doesn’t cooperate, and all he’s rewarded with is a violent coughing fit; his mother holds him through it and rubs his back, and his hands are speckled with crimson when it finally subsides. Mother tries to feed him, and gets him to take little sips of water and tea, but his stomach refuses to hold anything more substantial.

He cries, sometimes. He hates feeling so weak and so helpless, but the situation overwhelms him. It isn’t _fair._

Mother holds him through that, too.

“Where- where is-”

When he tries to ask about his father, it’s the middle of the night. Atreus is barely awake, but the thought is persistent in the forefront of his mind: if he’s finally going to succumb to his body’s inherent weakness, then he at least wants to see the man one last time. Atreus will never be the son his father wanted, but he still craves approval, the way a starving man craves just one morsel of meat. Surely, it’s the fever going to his head, but he likes to imagine that Father will be upset when he dies. Like maybe he’ll regret being away so often, or being so distant all the time.

His mother tells him the truth, though, and she tells him gently. “He’s still gone, my love. Hunting.”

It’s foolish of Atreus to hope for things to be different, even now. He knows better.

Besides, it doesn’t matter. He can feel the illness getting worse, and with every hour that passes, he knows he is getting weaker. Mother holds out hope, and she does everything in her power to keep him comfortable and to heal him; she changes his clothes when he sweats through them, she brings him cold cloths in an attempt to bring down his fever, she cleans up after him when he’s sick. She’s even started offering herbal remedies, different teas and salves that help with the pain, but do little to cure him of this sickness. Atreus is certain that this will be the end, and he knows she must see it, too.

He stays quiet about it, though. It’s hard enough to speak without hurting himself, and there’s no sense in making things worse for his mother. She’s already done too much suffering on his behalf.

At least when he finally dies, she won’t have to go through this ever again.

“Atreus,” she says one evening, and she sounds exhausted, and Atreus wonders how long it’s been since she’s rested. Too long, he’s sure. He can’t open his eyes right now, and his mouth feels too dry to talk, and his entire body feels like it’s burning, but his ears still work, and her voice is a comfort. He listens. “You will recover. I promise you. Whatever else might happen, whatever you go through- whatever happens down the road- you will get through this. This will not be your end, _hjarta minn._ ”

She sounds very sure of herself, and for a quiet moment, Atreus almost believes her. For a quiet moment, nothing exists except the two of them and the distant sounds of the outside world, the wind rustling in the trees past the crackling of the fire. The last birdsong of the day; a lone dotterel that bids goodnight to the forest. Footsteps.

_Footsteps._

Atreus is fading fast, but he tries to fight past it as his mother stands. It’s only the shifting of her furs that he hears; the familiar clink of metal as she picks up her axe on the way to the door. Deafening silence for a few more seconds, and Atreus strains to hear more, his heart pounding in his chest even as unconsciousness beckons once more.

The door opens, and he hears his mother make a small sound.

“ _Verr,_ ” she whispers, and Atreus can feel his heart in his throat. The sound of new weight on the wooden floor of their home, followed by a sharp inhale. It’s not his mother.

“Atreus?”

_Father._

* * *

Kratos has been gone for sixteen days. It has been a longer excursion than usual, and he feels no better for the fact. His past constantly threatens to creep back into the foreground, and he will not allow that to happen anywhere near his new family. He refuses to put them in danger.

It means that he often spends long stretches of time away from home; he finds monsters to kill and uses them as an outlet for the violence that bubbles under his skin. Without a target for the rage he has kept inside him for so long- without an enemy to fight, or a deity to punish for their slights against mankind- he struggles, and it often ends with his fists bloodied and some nightmarish creature left dead in his wake. Better to turn his anger on the horrors that plague these lands than to bring it home to his wife and child.

It creates distance, though, between himself and his family. Mostly his son; he cares deeply for Atreus, but struggles with the fear that he will instill the worst parts of himself into the boy. Atreus already suffers the curse of Kratos’ blood running through his veins, and the last thing he needs is further influence from such a failure of a man. It hurts to stay away, but he convinces himself that it is for the good of his son. He will not lose Atreus the way he lost Calliope.

Returning home offers an abrupt reminder that he is not the only danger that exists in these woods.

Faye looks exhausted. He suspects she has not slept in the past several days; her hair is unkept and her eyes are bloodshot. More pressing is the state of their home; things seem to have fallen into disarray, with a mess of soiled furs and clothes piled in one corner and various other debris carelessly moved out of the way. It stinks of sickness, and understanding hits Kratos hard.

“Atreus?”

Faye is pushing him back out the door before he can do anything else, and Kratos is too stunned to offer any resistance. Before he knows it, they are outside, the cold air biting at his exposed skin and bringing him back to the present. The horrifying, gut-wrenching present. “He is sick?”

“He’s _been_ sick. For days.” She sounds as tired as she looks, her voice rough and heavy with an unspoken accusation, and if the guilt was not present before, it floods in now. _Days_. How many days? “It’s been getting worse. He hasn’t been out of bed, he won’t eat-”

It hurts to hear. He thinks about their little boy, suffering. Thinks about his wife, doing her best to comfort him. Thinks about himself, far away and blissfully ignorant. As he usually is. “He will recover. He must.”

Faye pauses and looks at him. Kratos traces out the lines in her face, the hard set to her mouth. She needs to rest. Surely, she will only join Atreus if she continues to push herself like this. “It’s getting worse,” she repeats, softer. “He sleeps more than anything else. He’s been coughing up blood, too. He can barely even speak to me. I don’t think-”

Kratos refuses to listen. “He will recover,” he says sharply, and he watches her expression change to something unreadable. “He will be strong, and he will become healthy again. He needs rest.”

When Faye speaks again, her voice is still quiet, but in it is a tone he does not entirely recognize. It is one of frustration, and one of anger, and one of disbelief. “He is _sick_. Sicker than he has ever been before. You have been gone for weeks, and you return just to dismiss that and claim he will get better?” She steps closer, and though she is slightly smaller than him, Kratos feels the impulse to step back in response. He restrains himself. “Our son is _dying_. He is in a great deal of pain whenever he manages to open his eyes, and he has asked for you, but you have not been here even to offer him comfort.”

Kratos is at a loss. “Faye… I-”

“Don’t.” She visibly takes a breath before turning away. Her shoulders tremble faintly, and Kratos wonders, once again, how long it has been since she has allowed herself to sleep. _Days._ “He might still be awake, if you want to see him. If not…” She trails off and waves her hand towards the treeline. “I’m sure the rest of the world needs you just as much.”

She walks back to the cabin, leaving the door ajar as she slips inside. Kratos is left gaping, guilt and self-hatred constricting around his chest, and for several long minutes, he stays exactly where he is.

Faye, he knows, is right. He has been away when his family has needed him the most, and it weighs on him, threatening to drown him in a lifetime’s worth of failures and shortcomings. Atreus has fallen ill a great number of times throughout his childhood, but if Faye is certain that this is the worst of it yet-

He breathes in slowly and closes his eyes. He cannot be absent when his son may rest on his deathbed. The thought makes it harder to step forward, but he does, anyways, reaching out to nudge the door open before he lets himself inside.

The cabin is just the same as it was a few moments ago, but Faye has returned to Atreus’ side. The boy’s eyes are closed, and Faye lays a cloth on his head, darkened and heavy with water. She does not look up as Kratos comes inside, and Kratos stays quiet, closing the door firmly behind himself. He feels oddly out of place, and lingers where he is for a few moments, uncertain of how to proceed.

Eventually, he allows his feet to guide him forward. Towards Atreus.

Up close, the boy looks worse for wear. His skin is pale, and a fine sheen of sweat is visible at his hairline. Even in unconsciousness, he shivers, and Kratos reaches out automatically to adjust the furs laid over his small body, hoping to offer some comfort.

“We need wood.” Faye breaks the silence, and she does not meet his eyes when Kratos looks at her. She is still watching Atreus. “Our stores have been running low, and I haven’t had time since…”

She trails off, and Kratos looks at their child once more. If he had been here sooner…

“The axe is outside.” It is not a request, and Kratos exhales. “I will watch over him.”

He stays silent as he rises to his feet again, watching the two of them for another moment before turning to leave the house. If this is what little he is able to do, then he will do it gladly.

Even as he steps back out into the chill of late evening, finding the wood-cutting axe where it usually rests by the side of the house, his mind is spinning, struggling to find some way to solve this problem. Atreus has been sick before- many, many times before- but never has Kratos seen Faye reach this state of terror. Genuinely convinced that their little boy will continue to suffer and then-

Kratos wraps his fingers around the wooden handle and picks up the axe, then turns to make his way towards the far treeline. Surely, they can do something. There must be a treatment that will help their son heal; some combination of herbs that will bring the colour back to his cheeks. He scrapes his mind for everything he knows about medicine, but the vast majority of his knowledge revolves around physical wounds; he knows how to stop the bleeding caused by a sword or spear, but Atreus’ ailment is not one that can be seen with the naked eye. Not one that can be solved with the right poultice. Worse, this unfamiliar land is so sparsely populated that the chances of finding any person with the right knowledge to save the boy is all but nonexistent.

He finds himself a mighty aspen and lifts the axe before taking a powerful swing. As he works away at the tree, his frustration grows, desperate for a solution to this problem but coming up short every time. This is not a monster he can kill, nor a god he can threaten. Not a wall he can smash, or a city he can level, or a civilization he can topple to the ground.

There is absolutely nothing he can do to save his son, and it burns under his skin, threatening to manifest itself into a familiar blind rage, but-

But the tree topples down as he cleaves his way through the base of its trunk, and the sound of it crashing to the ground brings him back to reality. He is breathing heavily, the axe’s handle clutched tightly in his fist, and the wood creaks in his grip, threatening to splinter. Above him, the sky is an unnatural colour, the wind shifting in quick bursts and hinting at an approaching storm. Kratos forces himself to focus once more, closing his eyes and breathing in through his nose. Out again, through his mouth. In. Out.

He cannot afford to lose control. Not here. Not now.

Slowly, he returns to work. He lifts the felled tree and brings it back towards the cabin, so he can chop it up into more manageable pieces. He makes quick work of it and stacks the wood as he goes, meticulous and careful because he needs to put his energy into _something_ , and this is the only outlet he has right now. Before long, the small shelter beside their home is restocked, and Kratos sets the axe down in favour of gathering an armful of wood and slowly- slowly- returning to the front door.

Things are as he left them. Faye sits by their son, her fingers resting lightly in his hair, and she does not move when Kratos steps inside. He leaves her be for the moment, focusing instead on carrying the freshly-chopped wood to the hearth. He coaxes the embers into a proper blaze, then leaves a few logs in a small stack to the side, to be used later. Only once he is satisfied with his work does he stand, taking a slow breath before turning to face his wife.

“You need to rest.” He keeps his voice low, conscious of Atreus’ sleeping state. He does not wish to disturb the boy. “How long has it been since you have slept?”

Faye does not answer him right away, so Kratos crosses the room towards her. He makes an aborted movement to reach out and touch her, but decides against it for now. He does not deserve that much, and she does not want his clumsy attempts at comfort. “I will watch him. It will do us no good if you fall ill, as well.”

Finally, she turns her head, and in the flickering firelight, Kratos can see, once more, her exhaustion. The lines in her face are thrown into sharp relief, and he fights the impulse to reach out once more. Instead, he forces his voice to soften. “Faye. Get some rest.”

He sees the fight go out of her all at once, and her shoulders drop as she looks away. When she speaks, it is quiet, but firm. “If he wakes up- if he asks for me-”

“I will wake you.” Kratos meets her eyes, then nods towards the empty bed. “Sleep.”

With a great, shuddering breath, she stands, just enough to move to the other bed and lay herself down. Her eyes are already closed, and as Kratos watches, the tension leaves her, and it is only a matter of minutes before she has fallen asleep. His eyes return to their son, and Atreus is a mirror image of her, though his sleep is not nearly so sound.

Kratos claims the chair that Faye had occupied and sits himself down between the two beds. He keeps his eyes on Atreus and reaches out to brush his fingertips through the boy’s hair, thoughtless. Though his frustration lingers, it has faded to the back of his mind, while the forefront is occupied with a heavy concern. A desperate need to see Atreus survive another day, to beat this sickness.

For now, it seems that all he can do is hope. He tries not to think about how many times that has failed him in the past.

* * *

Faye begins to stir several hours later, and Kratos turns his attention towards her. He watches the way her brow furrows and her fingers flex, slowly returning to world of the living and eventually opening her eyes. She seems confused, at first, like she cannot remember how she ended up where she is, but he can see the realization flood in after just a short handful of seconds. She sits up quickly, and Kratos looks back at their son.

“How is he?” she asks. Her voice is still rough. “Did he wake up? Has his fever worsened?”

“No.” Atreus has moved very little in the time since his mother fell asleep; though his expression occasionally scrunches up, as though locked in some horrible nightmare, he has not stirred. “He has slept. His fever has not changed.”

Faye breathes out slowly, and Kratos listens to the gentle creak of wood as she stands. He is cautious, the memories of their fight fresh in his mind, and he does not wish to set her off again. Not with Atreus resting nearby. “I… I’ll get him a cloth. To bring it down.”

Kratos does not respond, keeping his attention on Atreus for now. Something unspoken hangs in the air between him and his wife, stinging of accusation and anger and guilt. He knows he has failed, and he does not deserve to stay here with his family, but he cannot bring himself to leave. Not with Atreus in such an abysmal state. Though his eyes are closed now, a handful of small sounds escape him, and Kratos smooths his hand over the boy’s head, hoping to comfort him. Fevered nightmares are worse than most, he knows, and only wishes he could eliminate whatever it is inside of Atreus’ head that is causing him such distress.

Faye returns with a cold cloth, as promised, and Kratos moves aside to let her deal with it. He turns his eyes away, because the silence between them grows heavier by the moment, nothing like the comfortable stretches they have shared in the past, and he feels that he is not welcome here. Perhaps that is the case; he has finally gone too far and made himself irredeemable in the eyes of his wife. Unworthy of sitting by their son’s bedside while he suffers through this illness. It certainly seems that way.

Convinced of this fact, Kratos looks towards the door. If nothing else, he can still provide for his family. Though the weather has worsened- a storm rages, and most of the wildlife will be hiding- he feels that he needs to step out. He speaks quietly. “We need food. And more wood. Perhaps I should-”

“No.” But she cuts him off, quick and hard, and Kratos falls silent. “Don’t leave. Not now.” A long few seconds of nothing, and the last word is quieter. Almost a whisper. Perhaps he imagines it. “Please.”

Kratos does not speak, but he stays right where he is. Thinks for a few minutes. Eventually turns towards the beds again, unable to name the feeling that grips his heart. “Alright.”

Silence settles over them once more, and though it still presses down on him, Kratos takes the plea to heart. He moves towards the small kitchen and starts to take inventory of their supplies, judging how much longer they will be able to live off the dried meat they have stored. In a few days, perhaps, he will need to venture into the nearby woods and bring home something fresh, but for now, they will survive. For now, they can focus entirely on Atreus.

He needs their attention more than anything else.

* * *

The hours pass without incident. Atreus stirs only briefly, and he does not seem to be aware of his surroundings. Faye is able to coax him into drinking something that smells medicinal, and he mumbles incoherently before the fever takes him under again.

It is not encouraging. Kratos rests briefly in the afternoon, but even in sleep, his thoughts are plagued with concern for his son. He wakes to find that nothing has changed; Atreus is still unconscious, and Faye will still not look him in the eye. He says nothing, but takes the initiative to prepare them both something simple to eat. He knows they need to keep up their strength, and he is determined to be useful in any way he can.

The sky darkens further with the approaching night, and Kratos tends to the fire. Though the day has been spent inside, Atreus’ sickness has taken its emotional toll; he can see that Faye is still tired, and he suspects that no amount of rest will cure her completely. Not so long as their son is hurting. Still, he refuses to allow her to reach the same state she had been in upon his return home, and takes it upon himself to ensure she stays healthy.

“Rest.” He speaks from the other side of the cabin, cleaning up because he needs to occupy his hands. The dirtied clothes rest in a neater pile now, and perhaps tomorrow, he will set about rinsing them out and hanging them to dry. “I will watch him. You need to take care of yourself.”

Faye is quiet. Eventually, Kratos looks towards her and finds himself meeting her eyes; though the fire throws shadows across much of her face in unreadable patterns, she looks sad. It is startling to see, through everything else, and Kratos does not know what to say.

“I lashed out at you.” Her voice is soft. Guilty. Kratos does not understand. “When you came home, I didn’t… I couldn’t think straight. Not with Atreus so-”

She stops. Cuts herself off. Maybe it hurts too much to say the words. “I said things I shouldn’t have said. I wanted to hurt you.”

 _You did_ , Kratos thinks, but he stays silent. All she had done was echo his own thoughts, and he had always known it would just be a matter of time before she came to understand the things he has known about himself for countless years. She sees who he really is: a failure of a father, among other things.

“It was wrong. You were not the one who deserved my anger.” But Faye seems determined to take it all back. She looks at him, now, and Kratos cannot look away; she reaches out a hand towards him and he stares at it. “I’m sorry.”

Kratos stays where he is for several long moments. He does not know what to do with this apology, so used to shameless betrayal, and it takes him too long to react. Faye speaks again. “You don’t need to forgive me. I just- I want you to know that I didn’t mean to hurt you. He loves you dearly, and he wants you here.”

Finally, he makes his feet move. He crosses the floor in a couple of long steps and reaches out to take her hand in his. Their fingers fit together like they always have, and Kratos breathes a little easier.

“I should have been here,” he says, because it is the truth.

“You’re here now,” she replies simply, and it’s the end of the conversation.

* * *

Days pass, and Atreus does not improve. Now that they are on better terms, Kratos and Faye take to watching him in shifts; they take turns resting and eventually hunting, ensuring that the boy is never alone. Though he will occasionally open his eyes, he is rarely coherent, and without being able to keep down any solid food, his condition deteriorates before their eyes. It is terrifying to be so powerless, and Kratos works every day to find some way to help his son.

It is becoming increasingly apparent that this might simply be out of their hands. Growing up in Sparta, he knows that a child like Atreus rarely makes it even to adolescence; in his home, the boy would have been put out of his misery early on in his life. That he has lived this long, despite his illness, speaks purely to Faye’s determination to keep him alive, and Kratos is glad for it. Now, though, with things as bad as they are, he does not believe it will be enough to save him. At this rate, it will be a matter of days before Atreus fades away completely, and Kratos struggles not to linger on the thought. It does nobody any good to fixate on what might come to pass. For now, Atreus is still alive, and still fighting.

Kratos just wishes he was able to fight alongside his son. To beat this sickness together.

After a violent coughing fit wracks Atreus’ small body and leaves his lips stained with blood, it takes Kratos several minutes to convince Faye to go to sleep. The sun is down, and it is her turn to rest. “I will wake you if he stirs,” he promises, as he always does, and only then does Faye finally turn in. Kratos sits beside Atreus in the usual spot and leans in with a cloth, gently wiping the blood away and feeling his heart clench at the pale, hollow look of the boy. He already resembles a ghost, ready to slip away into another life, and Kratos does his best not to let the thought affect him.

Days. Atreus has only days left if his condition does not improve, and Kratos knows he has no options. Faye has exhausted her knowledge of herbal remedies, and no amount of sleep will cure such an ailment. The fever persists, and truthfully, the fact that Atreus has survived as long as he has is entirely baffling. He is living on borrowed time, bedridden, and Kratos-

Kratos can think of exactly one thing he has yet to try. One last-ditch effort, messy and desperate, so outrageous that he recoils at the very thought. Something he has not stooped to in decades; not since the fateful battle that marked the start of his downfall.

He looks at Atreus, small and quiet and still. His breathing is shallow, and he shivers under the blankets, cold despite the raging fever that wracks his body. Thunder rumbles in the distance, a foreboding omen, and Kratos makes his decision.

There is no other choice. He will not allow his son to die.

* * *

Existence is hazy. Atreus doesn’t know how much time has passed since he got sick in the first place, and he doesn’t understand how he’s still alive. Tiny flickers of reality break through the fog, sometimes- his mother laying a cool cloth on his forehead, the sharp tang of herbal tea on his tongue, and another presence that comforts him, bringing careful touch and a low, gravelly voice- but for the most part, he’s been drifting. Nothing seems real anymore, the world around him tinged with a fever-induced blurriness, and even his own body seems distant, more often than not.

Today, though- right here, right now, wherever and whenever that might be- things seem just a little clearer.

It’s a familiar voice that filters into his ears, low and soft. He doesn’t understand the words, and at first, he thinks he’s just too tired to process them, but after listening for a short moment, he realizes they are not being spoken in his mother tongue. It’s softer, rounder at the edges. Different than what he’s used to. It tugs at something in his chest for which he has no name.

“ _Sas parakaloúme_ ,” the voice says, and Atreus struggles to understand. To pick out intonation as if it’ll tell him what the words mean. None of it makes sense, especially not through the fog that clouds his mind. Words slip by without meaning, and he fades for a moment before coming back. Picking out one that’s repeated, over and over.

It sounds like a name.

“ _Athína,_ ” his father whispers. “ _Athína, sósei ton. Sósei ton.”_

The words fade out of focus, and Atreus is left confused. Who is _Athína?_ Why does his father speak to her this way, so broken and desperate? He’s never heard Father use this tone before, and he’s never heard that name. _Athína._

“ _Chreiázetai ti voítheiá sas._ ”

When he cracks his eyes open, he can barely make out the image before him. His father, on his knees by the bedside. Head bowed. Voice rough as he continues to speak.

 _Speak._ That’s not the right word for it, Atreus thinks.

“ _Sósei ton, Athína._ ”

Before he goes under again, a wave of darkness dragging him down, he thinks of a word that fits a little better. A word that fills him with something warm and hopeful, like maybe he hasn’t been abandoned, after all. Like maybe Father thinks he’s worth fighting for, despite everything else, because this-

This is the first time Atreus has ever seen his father pray.

* * *

As the early morning light begins to spill into the cabin, Faye watches Atreus sleep. The forest is quiet around them, and her husband rests in the bed behind her, relieved after a few hours of keeping an eye on their son. Neither of them stir, but Faye stays right where she is, just in case. Something feels different about today, and she knows the importance of listening to even faint shimmers of premonition. Something has changed, and she won’t allow it to catch her off-guard.

Despite this, when Atreus opens his eyes, she is left at a loss for words.

It takes him a couple tries to speak, and Faye manages to gather herself enough to pick up a nearby cup of water, bringing it to his lips. The boy drinks gratefully and tries again. “I… Mother?”

“I’m here.” She smiles at him, because it’s the most he’s managed in days. She brushes her fingers through his hair and is startled when his skin doesn’t burn at the touch. Has the fever finally broken? “How do you feel, _smár æinn?_ ”

Atreus furrows his brow, like he needs to think about it. Faye waits. “I… I feel okay.” He stops to cough, and Faye is ready to intervene, but it only lasts a moment. No blood in sight. “How long have I-?”

“Too long.” With a soft exhale, she presses her hand to his forehead. Sure enough, his temperature has noticeably dropped. Though he’s still warmer than he should be, no longer does the fever rage under his skin. “Are you hungry?”

With Atreus’ nod, Faye stands to find him something light to eat. A broth, perhaps. Even if he’s feeling better, she suspects his stomach won’t hold much after going so long without a proper feeding. While she prepares the pot over the fire, she keeps one eye on Atreus, and sees the way he cranes his neck, looking towards the other bed where his father sleeps.

“He’s been worried about you.” She speaks softly, her heart aching. The guilt lingers from her outburst; no matter how long he’d been gone, her husband had not deserved to be the subject of her anger. Though they have made up, she senses that he will not forget her words, and she regrets it deeply. “He loves you very much.”

Atreus stays quiet, and there’s something in his expression that Faye can’t decipher. Curiosity, maybe. Confusion. A hundred questions, all written in his eyes.

She focuses on her cooking and speaks quietly to her son. Idle conversation, mostly to help keep him awake. Before long, the broth is finished, and she brings a small bowl to him, taking her seat at his side once more and helping him sit up.

As she helps Atreus take tiny sips of the broth, Faye hears rustling behind her. The other bed. Though she doesn’t take her eyes off Atreus, she listens to the quiet grunt as her husband shifts around, slowly waking up. He speaks before she gets the chance. “Is he-”

“He’s awake.” She does look, this time, glancing over her shoulder. Her husband is sitting up in bed, and though he still appears sleep-mussed, his eyes are all for their son. Before long, he’s standing, coming to join Faye by the bedside and dropping to one knee, looking the boy over.

“Boy.” It’s softer than she’s used to him speaking, and it makes her smile. “You are well?”

Atreus is quiet for a moment, and when Faye looks at him, he’s got that curious something in his expression again. Like he’s seeing his father in a new light for the first time. Faye doesn’t understand where it’s coming from, exactly, but it doesn’t seem like a bad thing. “Yes, sir.”

He grunts, and then stands. Faye meets his eyes for a long moment, and he nods at her. “The fire needs tending,” he says, and with that, he turns towards the door. His usual response to emotionality is to take a step back, so she’s not entirely surprised.

“Father-”

But Atreus speaks up, and he sounds tentative. Still, his father pauses, looking back towards them both.

“I…” He hesitates for a long moment. His father waits. “Thank you.”

Another few seconds of silence, during which it occurs to Faye that she must have missed something important. She doesn’t get a chance to ask, though, as her husband nods once before turning and heading for the door.

Left alone once more, Faye looks towards her son again, smiling softly. “How about a story while we wait?”

Atreus lights up, so Faye starts to speak. She falls into a familiar tale about the smartest man in all the nine realms, and when her husband returns with firewood and sits down to join them, she holds his hand. Their little boy listens with rapt attention, and he keeps the broth down, and when she’s finished telling the story, he asks if he can try eating something a little more solid.

Whatever miracle brought him back to them, Faye thanks the gods for their mercy. She thanks the Æsir. She thanks the Vanir. And looking towards her husband, the lines smoothed out of his face in obvious relief-

She thanks whoever else is listening.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this, and I'm really happy with it. I live for hurt/comfort. Thank you all so much for reading, and let me know what you think! <3
> 
>  **Old Norse**  
>  _sóttar-far_ \- sickness  
>  _smár æinn_ \- little one  
>  _verr_ \- husband  
>  _hjarta minn_ \- my heart
> 
>  **Greek**  
>  _asthéneia_ \- sickness  
>  _sas parakaloúme_ \- please  
>  _Athína_ \- Athena  
>  _sóse ton_ \- save him  
>  _chreiázetai ti voítheiá sas_ \- he needs your help


End file.
